


The Numbness of Disuse

by Juvinadelgreko



Series: the Aftermath [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, post 7x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juvinadelgreko/pseuds/Juvinadelgreko
Summary: A short one shot about Oliver and Felicity’s return from Slabside.





	The Numbness of Disuse

**Author's Note:**

> This a messy feeling vomit, not gonna lie. I had to write this as soon as the episode ended, I couldn’t help it. It’s a hot mess. Have fun!

Not a glance is spared to the chaos behind them.

Her eyes are glued to him. His are locked on something between a thousand yards and infinity. He has not said a word. He has not moved. His hands are folded in his lap. There is so much blood. Logically, she knows all of it can’t be his, or he’d be dead. But she does not miss the slashes in his morbid gray rags, or the arrow-like straightness of his spine. Not all of it is his, but some must be, some dim corner of her mind knows. As it passes through a muffled barrier of exhaustion and disbelief, the thought stokes the constant flame of rage in her belly higher. If her body had the energy, her hands would be shaking with it. But she is tired. She is so, so tired. And by the looks of it, so is he.

——

At some point, the feeling returns to her senses, and she asks John to please take them to the loft. She feels as if she’s hand her hands unbound after months in chains. Relief, mingling with the tingling sensation of the blood resuming its regular flow, but before that, the numbness of disuse. John promises to call them in the morning to discuss their future, but Felicity barely hears him. She is already gone.

——

“What first?” Her voice is lonely in the sparse space of their old home. He swallows.

“A shower sounds nice.” Exhausted. He’s exhausted.

She doesn’t want to let him out of her sight, but it’s not like she’d let him on the furniture covered in that much blood.

“Ok.”

She watches him go. _Well, if he’s going to do that, I’ll do this._

Felicity enters their kitchen and roots around in the cabinets for a few minutes until she finds what she’s looking for. A small box of chamomile is nestled in the back. She puts the kettle on with enough water for two of them. The hushed gurgle of the slowly heating water fades into the back of her mind as she considers what lies ahead. She knows they need to talk. He’d torn a hole in their lives. If Felicity had learned anything since Oliver’s confession, it had been that the road to Hell was indeed paved with good intentions. Her husband was a noble, selfless, idiot. Not a new concept. Oliver will always be galant and self-sacrificial, she knows. She can’t change that, she knows. But she needs him. She needs her best friend, her partner. She knows that Oliver will carry a god’s burden of guilt for the rest of his life. She knows that it will take a long, long time for him to believe that he deserves to be happy. That, she knows, is the root of this. Oliver believes himself to be expendable.

But she also knows that they are both dead tired, too tired, to say anything productive or healthy. This conversation can wait. For now, she wants to go to bed with her husband. The kettle shrieks, and she pours their tea.

——

Hot showers are one of his only indulgences, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he missed them. But God, everything hurts. The last time I was in this much pain, I was dead. At least Diaz hadn’t speared him the way R’as had. He’s turned his white washcloth and the tile flooring an ugly swirl of pink and gray as he gingerly washes away Slabside’s hold on his body. A new scar there...and another one there...and there....He won’t linger on them, not now. Soon, but not now. He is glad for the sting of the soap in his open wounds as joy tingles behind the numbness of disuse.

He hates it, but Diaz invades his thoughts. He has to be dead, the rational part of Oliver’s mind says. Something nags at the corner of his consciousness, though, a tiny, needling voice saying _you’re wrong, you’re wrong, he’s alive. You will never be rid of him. Shut up_ , Oliver thinks. He’s so sick of this marry-go-round they’ve been on. He replays their time in the flames over and over.

_She almost killed me. Held a gun to my head._

Lies, he was sure of it. Or he had been. Until his wife had been silent for hours on end as they drove home. There is so much, he realizes, that he doesn’t know. In the last sixth months, he’s seen her once. Hardly spoken to her. He’d kept himself alive on the idea that his family was safe. His family was safe...because of her. She’d survived. But what he didn’t know what how. Oliver finds that he is scared of the answer. They need to talk, he knows. But right now, he just wants to hold his wife.

——

Felicity enters their room as the water turns off. She sets the mugs on the nightstand and changes into a pair of sweats and a tank. When she is done, she knocks on the bathroom door, hoping that he’ll at least let her help with the bandages. Silence.

“Oliver, let me help you.”

More silence, then:

“ _Ow..ouch..shit!” Thump._

“Oliver.”

 _Huff_. “Come in.”

He has washed himself of Diaz’s blood only to be covered in his own. He’s also shaved, thank God. The stitches at his shoulder are torn, and blood trickles down to his towel-wrapped waist. Felicity reaches under the sink to where she knows they’ve stashed supplies for every possible minor emergency one could have in their own home as a vigilante. She retrieves a large basket and finds a needle and thread.

“Sit.” He sits on the edge of the sink and ignores the cold swipe of sterilizing alcohol.

She threads the needle and gently braces her left hand on his chest in preparation. It’s as if she’s shocked him. He is tense as a live wire with the contact. She flattens her palm against his skin, and he sighs gently, his eyes slipping closed.

“Ready?” She asks.

He nods.

She closes the wound and gently wipes the blood from his side. She places butterfly bandages over the cuts on his forehead, running her hands all over his face as she goes. Felicity soaks up every second of it. It’s sweeter, somehow, having something after thinking you’d never have it again. His eyes slide closed as she covers his sides and back in Arnica gel, heartbreak and fury simmering under her gentle touch. She caps the gel and kisses him gently on the forehead.

“I made us tea.” She whispers. He squeezes her hand in thanks. She helps him off the counter and hands him a pair of pants from the dresser. Oliver takes his mug from the nightstand, not caring that the tea has cooled to slightly below perfect temperature.

“I know we need to talk.”

“We do.”

“I’m sorry I—“

“Oliver. It can wait.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just...come to bed with me.”

She doesn’t need to ask him twice. She turns the lights off, pulls back the covers.

The familiar weight on the other side is back, his strong arms wrapping around her once more. His head his back on her chest, her fingers sliding over his cruelly shorn hair. She kisses the top of his head and murmurs:

“I missed you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Tumblr: juvinadelgreko
> 
> Also, I’m thinking I’ll make this part of a series about Oliver and Felicity dealing with the aftermath of Slabside and what it means for them.


End file.
